<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>We Love The Things We Love For What They Are by thegoodreverend</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22595998">We Love The Things We Love For What They Are</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodreverend/pseuds/thegoodreverend'>thegoodreverend</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dettlaff: the most problematic fave, M/M, Prelude to a Fix-It, Six chapters of Sadness and then a hard right turn into AU, how is this a fandom rare pair, mostly unexplicit sexual content, no beta we die like men, regis has some regrets, regis tried so hard to save his dumb goth boyfriend i hate it, this week on "regis downplays his problematic fave"</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-29 04:47:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22595998</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodreverend/pseuds/thegoodreverend</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The bond – or where the bond was, once – aches constantly. Regis feels as if he is bleeding internally at all times. Sometimes it is a dull ache that he can ignore, and the smiles he gives to the humans as they chat with him do not feel hollow. Sometimes it is as if somebody has stuck a hot poker where his spine is meant to be. At most times he feels as he imagines humans do when they lose a limb, only he has cut this limb off himself which makes him feel both uneven and full of self-pity and guilt.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I am the grass; I cover all</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905571">Found</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean">Dordean</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir">merulanoir</a>.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He is strong enough now to walk on his own. </p><p>He can stretch his toes in the grass and step outside and breathe in the forest air. He can handle the weight of a feathered friend on his hand. The amount of energy he has to do these things doesn’t last long, and he is aware of cautious eyes on his back the whole time, knows the man they belong to is ready to rush forward and support him if he so much as stubs his toe. It doesn’t bother him – he finds it comforting. It is nice, he thinks, to have such a thing in his life still. To find it with the hansa, with his friends, after so long on his own only to lose it again would have been a heavy burden on his recovery. He would have been thankful to his savior regardless, because the act of saving him was in and of itself kind and took such sacrifice, but the added bonus of true companionship and care is a balm for a slowly healing wound none can see. </p><p>The building Regis is living in is little more than a shack, but he has lived in worse. There are no holes in the walls or the roof, and the bed is comfortable although small. Dettlaff has been sleeping on blankets on the floor, a make-shift nest that he folds neatly under the bed in the daytime. Regis would prefer that he sleep in the bed too, but he doesn’t want to ask any more of Dettlaff than he already has – the man has allowed an invasion of his very small space, which leaves him with no privacy, and Regis has been draining him of physical energy on a regular basis. He has asked for enough, he thinks.</p><p>In the shack, beyond the bed, here is a table, two chairs and a stove, a wash basin, and there is also an easel and a small set of drawers containing paper and pigment and charcoal. There are no personal items beyond the drawings and Dettlaff’s clothing folded neatly in the lower drawer of the dresser, although he seems to accumulate a large number of books in various states of disrepair after Regis mentions he misses reading. These sit in stacks on the floor, haphazard after Regis has finished with them until his companion straightens the piles and orders them. He is a tidy creature by nature, Dettlaff, bordering on neurotic, and sometimes Regis can sense agitation at the mess he doesn’t even realize he’s making because he is so use to clutter and comforted by it, himself. But Dettlaff never says anything, and only organizes the books calmly. He’ll be putting up shelves soon, with the amount of them he’s accumulating, and the collection will not stop growing. He never had a use for books before but now they are too important not to collect. Regis assumes they must feel that way to Dettlaff as well, because for him they are a symbol of a private thing, their comfortable bond, the growing sureness that they will never be apart. Dettlaff reads to him at night for the first few weeks, a warm rumbling sound in the dark, until Regis' eyes are strong enough to make out the words on his own. Dettlaff sometimes reads aloud after that, too, even if he doesn’t need to. </p><p>For a long time, after he woke from what he later learned were years of sleep, Dettlaff didn’t draw. Instead he hovered uncomfortably, distant from the weak body in his bed, although he touched Regis gently and with no hesitation when he bathed him and looked over his healing skin and took on the awkwardly intimate task of feeding him without showing an ounce of emotion. Regis assumed any drawing must have been done while he slept, for he slept often. As he became aware of his surroundings and engaged by them, increasingly present in the world of the conscious, he tried to catch Dettlaff in the act. Regis first pretended to sleep, listening to the scratching of charcoal on paper; he next chanced opening his eyes and watching Dettlaff in the dim light, although he struggled to make out the forms of the work. It pleased him to see his caretaker unguarded. </p><p>He does not know when Dettlaff began to notice he was awake. Probably around the same time they began to really talk, get to know each other again. In any case, Dettlaff paid him no mind, and appeared to keep pretending he thought his patient was sleeping. It was likely shyness, Regis thought – Dettlaff appeared too direct to coyly offer insight into his personal life. It was charming.</p><p>It has been several years since then, and now Regis sits carefully on the ground and feels moss against the palms of his hands, ungloved and sensitive. When he looks down at them he sees skin older and more delicate than he remembers, veins blue and thick, knuckles knobby, paler than he is naturally from both his years indoors and his weakened state. His arms are similarly aged, and when his hair falls over his eyes it is grey verging on white, and unruly. He must look a mess, he thinks, especially compared to Dettlaff who is always well put together. Regis does not know how he gets such a close shave on his own and without a mirror, and he never sees him do it. </p><p>“Are you alright?” Dettlaff says, and his voice is full of restrained concern. Anxious with it. Regis smiles. </p><p>“Quite alright, my dear Dettlaff. Simply enjoying myself and the forest air.” <em>Breathe a lung full of air, Dandelion, fill your lungs with forest air, and you’ll also be healthy</em>. He had said that once, to a friend. At the time it had been teasing, but he finds that he does truly believe it.</p><p>Dettlaff makes a suspicious noise, but then withdraws to the inside of his modest home. Regis feels the absence of his gaze and sighs - his companion is often suspicious of him. Sometimes it is clearly because he doesn’t believe Regis is being entirely upfront about how he feels physically, but mostly the suspicion stems from something unidentifiable. Regis sees no cause for it. They have spent years getting to know each other now. Even though their interactions prior to this strange circumstance were few and not particularly positive, he doesn’t think he’s done anything to warrant such suspicion. Not that he takes it personally. If anything, he only feels the tinge of hurt that Dettlaff would choose not to confide in him – after all, they are connected now. There are no suitable words for such a bond in the common tongue, and they are rare enough in their own species that Regis is for once at a loss for how to accurately describe it. But still, he assumed such a thing came with a blanket promise of openness and understanding.</p><p>There is a katakan chittering in the woods, behind a line of trees. Waiting for Dettlaff. Regis smiles towards it and the chittering grows louder, and he sees eyes reflecting back at him – he enjoys this, the constantly shifting pack drawn to his savior. At first they were unsure of Regis, and the bruxa and alps who attended Dettlaff cast him suspicious glares lined with an undercurrent of jealousy; now it is different, and the more bestial vampires approach him easily while the smarter ones treat him to the conversation they do his brother in blood. The bruxa and the alps do not offer him the same physical comfort, though, and Regis understands – Dettlaff is singularly handsome, and Regis is offputtingly more human in his behavior and so weak he can hardly hold any appeal. Not that he'd be able or partake in such activity in his current state. As it stands, though, he much prefers their conversation and his chance to observe Dettlaff with his familiar pack. Dettlaff cares for them and speaks in their native tongue even if they aren’t smart enough to truly comprehend it, or are too young to know what the words mean. This is also, like his shyness, charming. </p><p>Dettlaff walks past him, close enough for Regis to feel the air move. He is shifted to his natural state and without shoes or a shirt. In this shape he can transform quickly into his other guise should a human approach. Just an unnervingly attractive shirtless man wandering through the woods. Easier to explain than anything else, Regis supposes, although Dettlaff is not a gifted liar and will not be able to justify <em>why</em> he's walking around shirtless in the woods - on the other hand, he could likely send intruders off with one murderous glare. At least there's a plan of <em>some kind</em>, even if a human really doesn't pose much risk to Dettlaff. A plan designed to keep danger away not out of concern for himself, but for the creatures that are drawn to him and, Regis suspects, for his patient. It is an elegant plan for somebody such as Dettlaff, who has never been one for deception or cunning. Smart, but not particularly clever. Regis wonders who taught it to him just as he wonders who taught him manners or how to so fluently speak the common tongue. The Dettlaff of Regis’ youth was a wild thing in the sense that he was unwilling to bend to the customs of men. Regis is surprised he’s wearing clothes on a regular basis.</p><p>“I am going to hunt,” Dettlaff says, this time not in the common tongue. He prefers his own language. Simple delivery with words for all things humans do not know how to describe. “You’ll go inside if you’re tired?” </p><p>“Of course,” Regis smiles. </p><p>Dettlaff casts him a brooding sort of look, as if he suspects that Regis will do no such thing. It is a justifiable concern. </p><p>“Have a good time,” Regis says cheerfully, and Dettlaff continues into the woods. </p><p>In truth, Regis is already tired. When he’s sure Dettlaff and the katakan (or katakans most likely, at this point) are far enough away he lies back on the forest floor and looks up at the sky. He’s strong enough now that he can hear the sounds of life under the earth. He can hear the raven in the tree tell him to go inside and sleep, and he can smile as he closes his eyes and lifts a middle finger in its general direction. The raven huffs. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He feels the grass under his hands as he did then, although only against his fingers. His hands are gloved, and the witcher sits across from him. <br/>
It is okay, he thinks, because it needed to be done; it is not the first time he has had to pick sides although it is the final time he will do so, and while there is always the nagging voice that he has picked the wrong one because he is a monster and will not ever be able to fully keep what is dear to him or find acceptance, he knows in his heart he has done what is right. Dettlaff could not have been changed in any way that would have made him safe. He would always be vulnerable to deception, liable to repeat his actions. He was a creature outside of his place and time who would not truly adapt. It was not his fault, but he could not change - Regis sees that now, or so he tells himself. And it is okay because he did it for Geralt, who would have died, and Geralt is a good man and his friend who he loves deeply. Geralt lives, and there was no way to truly save Dettlaff, or protect humans from him.</p><p>Part of this story he's crafting for himself is a lie, a quick fix for a wound that will bleed forever. It was only for Geralt. He would have tricked himself into believing he could civilize Dettlaff even if he'd killed a hundred men.</p><p>Geralt is talking, and Regis has not been listening. He has been telling himself it is okay, and that the terrible pain in his gut will fade with time. His mind is full of static, but he is glad that the witcher lives. </p><p>“I would give my life for yours,” Dettlaff had told him, half-whispering from across a darkened room the night before he left. He would also give his life for Rhena, and in his heart Regis knew who Dettlaff would pick if it was a split second decision, because Rhena was a tragedy to him and Dettlaff was a creature unused to such feeling, but it hadn’t mattered. At that time, he had known without a doubt that he would always choose Dettlaff. Even if he began to hunt men, Regis would side with him because he could not imagine going without. Dettlaff felt as if he was an extension of Regis’ own self and at the same time an all-encompassing force. At that time, though, Regis had not conceived of a circumstance in which he too would have to choose, or one in which Geralt would be involved. If he had, he might have told Dettlaff more about the witcher. Perhaps Dettlaff would have taken his desperate pleas and assurances more seriously. </p><p>He will likely not see the witcher again, he realizes. Geralt is now looking out at the valley. Geralt will wander, or he will stay in Toussaint, and in either case it will be hard to find him because Regis must run far away if he wants to avoid the Undeath again now that he is wanted by his people, and when he is far enough he can never return to Toussaint. Even sitting here speaking is pushing his luck, but he can not make himself go. He is desperate for one last look at his good friend, who he loves, and for the distraction from his choices. When he is on his own the cracks on the surface of his heart will split further, and he will shatter. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Blood and Wine is a gift to mankind but like... has Regis not gone through enough???<br/>(No, clearly, since I'm writing this mess.) </p><p>This is the first piece that I've started posting before fully completing, so hoping I don't feel the compulsion to go back and edit every chapter haha. Very inspired by "Found", by Dordean and Merulanoir, which will get more obvious in a chapter or two. Great fic, lots of feelings, made my brain start firing off ideas. For being such a small tag, there are so many good fics!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Sorry I could not travel both</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Regis gets up and goes into the house before Dettlaff returns. He slept outside, which in retrospect was dangerous but he’s fine and so he doesn’t think about it. He lights a fire in the stove and sets water out to boil, because Dettlaff has procured tea for him to drink out of one of the chipped mugs hanging on the wall, and he stares at the drawer of paper as he waits. It would be a violation of privacy for him to look inside. The curiosity kills him. </p>
<p>Dettlaff returns smelling of blood as Regis sits down with his brewing tea, and holding a hare he will skin for stew. A successful hunt, not that they ever aren’t successful, but he looks perturbed. He feels perturbed, too – the feeling rubs, prickling, against the inside of Regis' chest. </p>
<p>“What is it?” he asks, and Dettlaff shoots a look at him. He hesitates answering. </p>
<p>“They are… very young,” he says finally, and his jaw tenses. “Reckless. I am afraid they will do something foolish and attract attention to themselves.” </p>
<p>“Reckless?”</p>
<p>“They went after a horse,” Dettlaff explains. “A saddled one. I stopped them, but the human will need to track his animal.”</p>
<p>Regis sets his mug on the table. Dettlaff is hovering, and Regis can see every muscle tense in his back. His claws flex at his side. </p>
<p>“Little shits,” Regis says, and quirks his lips in a half smile. “Hopefully they chased the horse in the opposite direction of the hut.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Then there is nothing to worry about for now.” Regis states, because he knows it is comforting. Dettlaff has realized he has grown wise, and insightful in the ways of humans since they last met. He does not understand Regis’ urge to walk amongst him, but he recognizes it as a tool. “The man will go in the direction of his animal. And if he does not, then the two of us are – or will be – wearing our faces appropriately, and there will be nothing suspicious to draw more of them.”</p>
<p>Dettlaff hums, and doesn’t take the hint to change his appearance until Regis quirks an eyebrow at him. He flexes his grip on the rabbit’s hind legs.</p>
<p>“I’ll be back after I take care of this,” he says, and Regis nods. Dettlaff always skins meat outside, even though Regis has told him it doesn’t bother him. Dettlaff doesn’t believe him, thinks Regis is being polite like a human instead of telling him the truth. Regis also suspects he doesn’t like the mess. </p>
<p>“Of course, my dear. Carry on, and leave the rest to me.”</p>
<p>He cuts vegetables he has harvested from a modest garden, slicing them on a slab of wood on the table. Flavors the water left by boiling bones, dropping spices in. Dettlaff has brought him the basic necessities for decent food, and while he was skeptical of the importance at first he now fully appreciates Regis’ skill in preparing a meal. He will turn Dettlaff into a gourmand amongst other things, Regis thinks, and smiles to himself. He suspects whoever taught Dettlaff his recently acquired human traits also taught him to hurt so badly that he is distant even with the one bonded to him so closely they might as well be the same person, but he is grateful that she has made his job easier. Regis will show Dettlaff that humans aren’t so bad, civilize him to the point where they can move closer to town. Close enough for the two of them to be satisfied, once Regis is physically able to act on his already restless sensations and need for conversation with people beyond just Dettlaff. </p>
<p>He slows his motion, then, and the knife stills. He has not asked Dettlaff if this arrangement is permanent, or if Dettlaff will ask him to leave once he’s fully healed. They will be close always – there is no other option for them. He suspects distance will be painful, but if Dettlaff doesn’t want him to stay, he can’t force him to change his mind. Regis has been assuming that they will never part without realizing it. </p>
<p>The thought is pushed from his mind.</p>
<p>Regis continues his work on the stew, and smiles at Dettlaff when he brings in the butchered hare. It is a conversation for another time.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He imagines a circumstance in which Dettlaff lives. He can’t think of one in which Syanna does – there doesn’t seem to be a way for that to happen. She was in Dettlaff’s grasp, and he had realized the extent of her betrayal, and he hurt in a way that shook Regis to his core even through the bond that Dettlaff had worked so hard to mute. She dies in every situation Regis can imagine, and he can’t say he’s too upset about that. </p>
<p>Dettlaff doesn’t die, always. Regis imagines the words Geralt might say that would convince him to stop. Imagines saving the witcher, and Geralt’s hand on his arm to still the death-blow. He imagines Dettlaff fleeing, and imagines himself on the road in pursuit, in a search that lasts for decades if not centuries. He imagines finding Dettlaff and the sense of relief that would overwhelm him – hurt, too, but that will fade. Dettlaff’s shocked face to see him, the crumbling façade, the searching dart of his eyes. He thinks about running, like a frightened animal, but Regis is gripping his face. He is pressing their foreheads together and breathing that he has searched for hundreds of years, that Dettlaff is his and he will never let him go. Even if Dettlaff runs, he will follow. He begs Dettlaff not to run, not to leave, a mirror image of a prior conversation hundreds of years ago. The bond springs back as Dettlaff lets it, and he is filled with a profound relief that he is not alone. He presses Dettlaff against a wall and kisses him fiercely, and Dettlaff fists his clothes and tugs him close and promises and promises and promises.</p>
<p>The bond – or where the bond was, once – aches constantly. Regis feels as if he is bleeding internally, at all times. Sometimes it is a dull ache that he can ignore, and the smiles he gives to the humans as they chat with him do not feel hollow. Sometimes it is as if somebody has stuck a hot poker where his spine is meant to be. At most times he feels as he imagines humans do when they lose a limb, only he has cut this limb off himself which makes him feel both uneven and full of self pity and guilt. </p>
<p>He killed Dettlaff for Geralt, and because for a few terribly timed hours he thought him incapable of adapting. Like a dog so anxious it can do nothing but bite. Now, alone in a home far away from Toussaint he will soon have to abandon when he is found, Regis doubts. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. And, for all burden, care</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That night after he finishes dinner, he approaches the dresser while Dettlaff eats. He doesn’t need to eat food before he feeds Regis, only needs to consume blood, but Regis likes to make sure he does it anyway. He is a medical professional, after all. Ensuring Dettlaff has as much energy as possible is important to him, especially since Dettlaff himself is recovering from the days when Regis had required significantly more of him. Sharp blue eyes watch him carefully – cautious, always cautious – as Regis pulls open a drawer slowly. Plenty of time to say stop. To guard this part of himself more closely. Dettlaff says nothing, and so Regis pulls the drawer open completely and takes the papers out.</p>
<p>The drawings are beautiful. They are largely of the world outside, of trees and birds and other animals, and they are not like the drawings and notes Regis makes. These are not scientific illustrations - they are art. They are drawn as if they are the most perfect, distilled versions of the things they represent. He sees a few of himself, recently drawn, sitting outside in the sun (mostly from behind and he does indeed look a mess). Several of the drawings contain a woman. A human woman, and a beautiful one. Regis wants to ask who she is – is she the one who taught Dettlaff how to be more of a human man? How to be suspicious? This small glimpse into Dettlaff’s rarely accessible inner life has ruined him, for now he craves information. He wants to devour the answers to a thousand questions.</p>
<p>He does not ask his questions. He puts the drawings down on the dresser and turns to Dettlaff, who is watching him strangely and looks as though he might cry. Something monumental shifts. Regis can’t put his finger on it. </p>
<p>“Shave me tonight?” he asks, and Dettlaff blinks rapidly. Regis can’t blame him. The request came abruptly. “I look like a beggar. Or a wild-man, perhaps. It’s not a good look on me.” </p>
<p>“Of course,” Dettlaff says, half to his meal. Dettlaff has denied him rarely, and when he has it was only when Regis was huffing like a child about being stuck in bed. He will otherwise bring him anything he asks for, do whatever he requests.</p>
<p>“I’m surprised you didn’t try to earlier,” Regis says brightly, and sits back down at the table. Dettlaff's somber tone isn't lifting and so he has to compensate, which he's used to. “I imagine looking at me like this is something of a nightmare.”</p>
<p>“It isn’t,” Dettlaff insists and looks up at Regis with concern, and, not for the first time, he has taken Regis literally. Regis can only smile soft and gentle.</p>
<p>“I’m teasing,” he says.</p>
<p>Dettlaff narrows his eyes and turns back to his meal, but Regis knows his face well enough to see the slight shift of color on his cheeks and the upwards tug at the corners of his lips. </p>
<p>Despite the fact that Dettlaff has cradled him in his lap and let him latch on to his forearm like a leech, shaving is much more intimate than feeding. Shockingly unexpected. Perhaps, Regis thinks, it is because Dettlaff’s bare, large and callused hands are against his face. Because it is very possible that he will be hurt, that the other vampire might nick his face with the blade – and because Regis immediately thinks about him licking up the trail of blood that would trickle down his neck. </p>
<p>He closes his eyes to compose himself, and is thankful that the bond is nowhere near as intense as he thought it would be when it was first made. What an embarrassing feeling to let his companion in on - he is deeply grateful he can only sense the barest hint of the strongest emotions. With a small huff of a laugh that passes without comment, Regis imagines how that conversation would go. So rude of me, my dear Dettlaff - it’s only that you’re gentle and good and so handsome it’s terrible to look at you, would you be so kind as fuck me senseless? The thought of accidentally allowing his companion access to this new and deeply inappropriate crush he’s developed as if he’s an inexperienced fledgling sobers him immediately, though, and he shoves the feeling down to a muted space in his mind where there’s no chance it can be found through the bond or an observant glance or anything else. A rejection would be crushing, as much as he’s loath to admit it. It feels a shallow thing to care about in light of the depth of their bond. But it is true nonetheless, and Regis feels it is wiser to avoid bringing up the subject at all.</p>
<p>Dettlaff stands behind him and tilts his head gently, shaves him with precision and intent in all his movements, and then comes around and evaluates his work. Regis opens his eyes, and has no choice but to stare directly into a disturbingly piercing gaze as Dettlaff evens out his sideburns – sideburns, really? – and then pauses like he knows what Regis is thinking. </p>
<p>“I remember your face in our youth being fuller,” he says, suddenly doubtful. “You seemed upset, earlier, by the pace your recovery  is progressing at, and I thought this might make you appear more yourself. Less hollow.”</p>
<p>“Was I upset earlier?” Regis asks, and he can’t get his voice to be anything other than quiet. Terrible lack of composure. He’s usually not so bewildered, but then again, he’s not usually face to face with a good and gentle man who saved his life and has the potential to sense his every thought and emotion, and is so stupidly damnably fucking <em>handsome</em>. All of this compounded by the fact that it has been years since he experienced any sexual intimacy or had the energy to even consider the activity – a travesty for a creature who has taken such joy in lust. What an awful turn of events, Regis thinks. </p>
<p>“Outside,” Dettlaff answers, furrowing his brow. Regis has to think for several long moments about what his original question even was. “I saw you looking at your hands, and you seemed – perhaps upset is not the right word.”</p>
<p>“Sadly nostalgic?” Regis laughs. “Keep them, if you please. Perhaps it’s not such a bad idea – you shall have to convince me I do not look like a filthy wanderer, at least not any more than I had before Stygga. Intriguing individual offering herbs and mandrake moonshine is a very different aesthetic, although I do appreciate the razor-thin line between the two.”</p>
<p>Although Regis is smiling, Dettlaff’s face pulls tight at the mention of the castle, and apparently suddenly convinced of his work he stands and moves swiftly behind him again. He begins to cut his hair.</p>
<p>“Now you’re the one who’s upset,” Regis says. He senses Dettlaff tensing behind him as he speaks, and knows he will take his time answering. Dettlaff always pauses to find the right words, unlike Regis who speaks as he tries to think of them in the rare occasions they don’t come right off the bat. But he’s patient with Dettlaff, and waits. </p>
<p>“I don’t like to think of you there. Or before, with the humans.” </p>
<p>“My friends, you mean.”</p>
<p>Dettlaff huffs. “They let you break your oath, and led you to act recklessly. Had you not have done so you would not have ended up in the state that I found you in. You would not have been in pain.”</p>
<p>“It was my choice. They didn’t force my hand. I did it to help them.”</p>
<p>“A pack would not have let you put yourself at such risk.”</p>
<p>“And as a member of that pack, Dettlaff, I had a duty to help protect them. My friend was looking for his daughter, and facing an enemy he could not possibly have beaten on his own. I knew the risk I took and it is not their fault. The burden of my decision rests on me alone, not on them. Your dislike of them is unjustified.” </p>
<p>Dettlaff is silent, chewing on what words to say next. His touch has grown tentative – Regis realizes as soon as he’s done talking that he spoke far more harshly than he intended. The memories of Stygga are fresh, and painful, and he aches not knowing what befell the hansa. It is a thing that he has to regularly remind himself not to think about, but none of it is Dettlaff’s fault, and he deserves to feel none of Regis’ pain. He clears his throat and softens his tone. </p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to answer you so severely,” he says, “but I love them dearly and it pains me to hear them disparaged. I do appreciate, though, your empathy and care for my current condition. As I do your selflessness in your actions, even after you realized who you’d found.”</p>
<p>“I harbored no dislike for you before. I only found your actions foolish and unpleasantly chaotic.”</p>
<p>Regis huffs a laugh. “That’s a way of putting it. Still. I could have healed and pulled you into more unseemly drama.”</p>
<p>“No,” Dettlaff says, as if it was a point of fact. “You were always one with a great propensity for change. You could not have remained as you were. It is a trait of yours I have always admired.”</p>
<p>Regis doesn’t know what to say to that. He supposes it doesn’t need a response – Dettlaff’s fingers are purposeful again, and the tension has faded. Regis is now hyper-aware of the feeling of air on the back of his neck, knows the wild way in which the longer strands Dettlaff has left must be acting. His hair was always unruly, but he trusts that a man as well-groomed as Dettlaff has decent enough taste. And anything will look better than before.</p>
<p>"I am sorry I spoke poorly of your humans.” Dettlaff's voice is quiet. The blade has stilled, and Regis can feel him hesitating to touch his shoulder. “I was not there. I shouldn’t have spoken so.”</p>
<p>“All is forgiven, my dear Dettlaff,” Regis says. “Don’t fret.” </p>
<p>Dettlaff’s fingers touch his shoulder as if he plans to grasp it, but at the last minute he shifts his intent and brushes hair away and onto the floor. He walks away and takes up a broom. </p>
<p>“Get into bed,” he says. “After I clean, you’ll feed.”</p>
<p>Regis smiles fondly. Dettlaff’s brusqueness reminds him of the witcher, and he wonders if Geralt found his Ciri and made it out alive. If any of the others survived. When he stands, he feels exhausted down to his bones. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p><br/>Regis dreams. In a way they are nightmares, although he doesn’t wake up frightened. </p>
<p>Nothing happens in these dreams. They are not like the ones he had in his Undeath, or even during his recovery, as he relived the burning pressure two hands on his skull and the eternal pain of his skin burning away, the fat and flesh of him melting and charring as he screamed. Which is good, he thinks, because there is no one now to comfort him if he was to wake screaming.</p>
<p>In these dreams Dettlaff lays beside him. Sometimes they are in the forest outside of the shack, and sometimes they are on the stone floor of Tesham Mutna in the dark and the rain. Dettlaff is always on his back, looking human, and staring at Regis with an unreadable but distinctly sorrowful expression. Regis is always on his stomach. Dettlaff extends a hand and strokes his cheek with the back of his hand, and fits his gloved palm against Regis’, who entangles their fingers and wishes their hands were bare. Regis doesn’t know why Dettlaff is looking at him in such a way, but knows it is without blame. It lacks the hurt tone he’s seen there before – there is no betrayal, only the undercurrent of sadness. In the dreams, Regis knows the bond is there, although he can’t feel it. It is like pain, in dreams. The knowledge that it is there, without the sensation; when he was on fire he felt the panic of it, and now that in his dreams he is staring at Dettlaff and the bond is flowing freely he feels only sadly nostalgic.</p>
<p>He has spoken in these dreams. Begged for forgiveness, whispered his feelings – he never said perfectly when he spoke aloud, he realizes, and perhaps Dettlaff didn’t truly understand – and asked him over and over not to leave. To abandon Syanna. To move on. Told him that he would abandon the witcher if only Dettlaff would come home, as if a dream had the power to change what had already happened. </p>
<p>Dettlaff never responds. He only grips Regis’ hand and watches, and Regis wakes expecting to see him there. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. So dawn goes down to day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By now, Regis has learned to move forward in bed and wait for Dettlaff. The other man always sits behind him, because it is less awkward to hold his arm to his mouth that way, and possibly because he is used to it. When Regis was weaker he was cradled against Dettlaff’s body so he could be held upright, and now he rests comfortably against it. It was awkward at first. Now it is routine. </p><p>Regis watches Dettlaff sweep. Watches as he finished and sets the broom aside, and walks towards Regis without truly looking up. The walk is suspicious in itself – Regis is aware, again, of something monumental shifting, and knows suddenly that whatever it is has shifted in Dettlaff. </p><p>At this point Dettlaff would normally be rolling up his sleeve, but he is still shirtless from the hunt. Regis smiles a little. Dettlaff is a creature of habit, after all – maybe he does still despise the sensation of clothing. Without his sleeve to roll up, he simply positions himself behind Regis and waits for the other man to lean back. Regis feels tense muscles in his body, the hesitant way in which he wraps his arm around Regis’ shoulders. It is as if this is the first time, after Regis had woken enough to know where he was and who was helping him. It’s perplexing to him that Dettlaff would suddenly revert to such shyness. </p><p>He takes Dettlaff’s arm in his hands gently, which doesn’t seem to help. Dettlaff tenses to the point of trembling, and Regis begins to feel distressed. There is no point in protesting, though. Dettlaff will make him drink anyway, so Regis sinks his teeth into the softer underside of Dettlaff’s arm, just above his wrist, latching on tight so no blood escapes past the extent of his lips. It flows freely and Regis drinks deeply, because he knows Dettlaff will stop him if it’s too much. </p><p>Dettlaff’s blood is not like anything else he’s had. It isn’t intoxicating in the same way that human blood is, or even animal – it is not, as the humans would say, liquid courage. It does not make him lose himself in that way. Instead it seems to take him out of himself entirely, into a blissful sense of surety and comfort. It is thick and sweet on his tongue, comforting because it is of Dettlaff in a way that nothing else can be. As he drinks he is composed only of the certainty that he and Dettlaff are a natural pair - two trees growing from the same felled stump, a moon orbiting a verdant planet, the sea and the shore locked in a constant shifting dance. These things are wordless sensations as he drinks, and they are powerful and raw he could never find a way to explain them. He barely remembers their intensity after it’s over – how can one possibly remember the intensity of a thing they can’t quantify? </p><p>It is what he thought the bond would come to feel like. As it turns out it is only an echo of the feeling, a remarkably lighter version of it. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed by that. <br/>
Tonight is different than it has been before, because something has shifted in Dettlaff. He’s locking his free arm around Regis’ chest and holding him close, tucking his head against the crook of his neck and shoulder. Regis is not so far gone that he can’t feel the shallow puffs of air against his neck or the increased trembling of the arm in his hands. Regis doubts, suddenly, that Dettlaff will stop him, and so he stops himself. Withdraws his fangs and licks the wound closed, and then rests his lips against the space recently occupied by his teeth. It is not a kiss, only a close-mouthed press of flesh. Dettlaff doesn’t try to withdraw his arm, and so Regis lowers it for him until it is pressed against his chest and clutching his shoulder, and he leaves his bare hands against Dettlaff’s forearm. He can sense the pulse of him in his palms and it feels intimate and raw. </p><p>“It’s alright,” he says, gentle and in their native tongue because it is what Dettlaff prefers. Dettlaff shakes his head against Regis’ neck, but doesn’t move away. Regis doesn’t know what he’s shaking his head at – whether he is indicating that it is not alright or if Regis is incorrect in his assumption that something is wrong - and adjusts his grip to trail his nails gently over Dettlaff’s skin, murmurs assurances until Dettlaff stops shaking his head. He waits until the body against his is relaxed and warm before he gives in to exhaustion, closes his eyes, and drifts off sleep. </p><p>He dreams of standing on a floor made entirely of ash, surrounded by a ruined castle that seems distressingly familiar but at the same time unrecognizable. He is on his hands and knees, and below him, below the surface, Dettlaff is suffocating. Regis digs and digs and ash moves back into the hole like dry sand on the beach. Regis can feel his fingers brushing his, sometimes, before the ash moves back in. The struggle is eternal. Regis digs, and Dettlaff breathes lungfuls of ash.</p><p>When he wakes it is still dark, and he finds that he has shifted so he’s pressed between Dettlaff, who hasn’t moved out of the bed, and the wall. Curled on his side, resting his head on Dettlaff’s chest, hearing his slow and steady heart. Dettlaff’s arm is pinned under him. Likely why he hasn’t moved. Dettlaff always sleeps on the floor. </p><p>He’s awake, too. Regis can almost hear him thinking. He feels his voice start as a rumble in his chest before he even speaks. </p><p>“You dreamt,” he says. Regis hums an affirmation, and Dettlaff waits before saying, “You were afraid. Not like you usually are.” </p><p>“A different kind of fear, I suppose. You were in trouble and I couldn’t get to you.” </p><p>Dettlaff’s arm twitches, and so Regis lets it go. He is going to move on to the floor, he thinks. This whole thing, the whole evening – it has crossed some line. Clearly purposefully set – he has been distant, despite initiating this strange situation himself. Regis feels a rush of shame and panic, which is snuffed as quickly as it comes on because his bedmate is only adjusting so he can curl his arm around Regis’ back and stroke through his hair. Regis melts back into the bed, and takes the embrace as a sign that though a line has been crossed it is indeed alright, and he sets his hand on Dettlaff’s stomach. Leaves it there as Dettlaff covers it with his own. </p><p>"I can't imagine I'll get myself into any trouble you can't get me out of," Dettlaff rumbles softly. "Your waking self can take comfort in that. Only one of us has ever been inclined towards foolishness."</p><p>Regis huffs an exhausted laugh and closes his eyes. He would laugh more if he were not so tired. The day has been too much. He closes his eyes again and feels the rise and fall of Dettlaff’s chest, feels gentle nails against his scalp, the warm hand over his. Hears his own voice, distant and tired, and isn’t sure he’s even talking. </p><p>“I am glad for the things that happened at Stygga,” his voice says, “because they brought me to you.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Cirilla’s daughter is the one to tell him Geralt is dead. He has found himself in Nilfgaard, where he has always been welcome at the palace in Vizima as a dear friend of the Empress’ family. It has only just happened – the Empress is preparing to travel to Toussaint, where the witcher will be buried. He is invited, obviously, but Toussaint is a gamble. He could stay in Vizima, where he is relatively safe - there are few of his kind here, barring the Queen of the Night, with whom he has an understanding. Their paths simply do not cross any longer. </p><p>Despite his better judgement Regis agrees to go when he’s asked. He suspects they’ll be waiting for him. Of course he would go to the funeral of the man he betrayed his own kind for – how could he not? He thinks over the inevitability of his arrest, his punishment. Thinks it will be worth it, and that it’s a long time coming and he's so dreadfully tired of running from it. In the carriage on the way, Geralt’s great-grandaughter stare at him with large eyes and delights in his stories. They are censored versions of the real thing. She’s only seven. Her mother will tell her the gorier details later, as they are all stories she’s heard before. As he tells them, as the warm and sunny Toussaint air surrounds them, he feels an incredible weight lift from his shoulders. </p><p>All things end, he thinks. He had wondered when his would come. </p><p>The funeral is well attended. He recognizes some faces, although most are new. Such is the way of mortality. He stands next to Yennefer who watches the burial with a trembling jaw and cold, watering eyes, and wonders if she is thinking the same thing. Probably not. She is thinking only of loss. <br/>
Regis thinks of it too – thinks of the last time he saw the witcher, his friend who he loved, old and smiling at the palace in Vizima a decade ago. Regis had known then that the end would come soon, and as he watches the burial he is sad. He mourns, but it is in the way that one mourns the summer at the start of fall. Inevitable and sad, but natural and peaceful. Geralt, despite the odds, was not ripped violently from the world, from his loved ones. He had a good life, Regis thinks. Certainly better than anybody expected. And to die in a <em>bed</em>, of all places!</p><p>“He owed you much,” Yennefer says beside him. </p><p>“He didn’t owe me anything,” Regis smiles softly. “He was my friend.” </p><p>“Still. I have hidden this place from sight – you will be safe here, for the next few days. You should leave quickly after this is all over.” </p><p>Regis turns to look at her with a brow raised. She’s still looking away from him, ageless face fixed on the place Geralt will rest. They are covering him with dirt.</p><p>“He was afraid you would come,” she says, “and he asked me to help you.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Yennefer looks at him, slow and intentional and her gaze is dagger-sharp and clear and sends a thrill through him. “If you’d like to go to the cemetery where you stayed, you’ll find it hidden as well. Nobody has been there since you. Geralt closed it up. I don’t think he realized what he was doing, but it ended up being quite important. So, his usual approach to things.” </p><p>Regis gives her a tight nod, and after a moment looks back at the grave. The crowd is heading back to the house, and very few remain standing. </p><p>“Granted it has been some time, but I remember you being far more verbose.” </p><p>“The years take their toll on one’s constitution, my dear,” Regis smiles dryly. “As do our choices. Mine have left me rather tired.” </p><p>Yennefer hums a sound of understanding and they stand side by side for some time at the grave of the witcher, who they loved. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm nearing the place where I only have vague outline notes, so updates will start coming at a more normal pace unless I have a freakish burst of narrative energy tonight and finish everything. </p><p>Four chapters have gone up over the past two and a half days - if you feel like you missed something, that'd be why!</p><p>2/10 - dropped in a quick edit at the very end, here. Now remembering why I always finish fics before posting, and it's because all my tie-ins happen after the fact &gt; _ &gt;</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. I dwell in a lonely house I know</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here comes the bangin', fellas</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Regis is strong enough now to walk in the woods on his own. Dettlaff has brought him new clothing and shoes and blank books to write in. He wanders in the woods, each day a little further from the home they share; he reads under the trees, takes his notes and sketches and writes. It’s a fresh start, like everything else, and it still feels strange. </p>
<p>At first Dettlaff walked with him. Now he leaves him to his own devices. This change left Regis with a strange kind of hurt as he’s unsure exactly what caused it. Perhaps Dettlaff simply has had enough of his company and wishes to take time for himself, which Regis understands completely and accepts that it may be a harbinger of a time not so far away when Dettlaff will ask him to leave - but perhaps he has misunderstood and thinks that Regis has tired of his company, which is significantly worse. He compensates by occasionally having the corvids bring his companion scraps of paper on which he draws mushrooms and leaves and sometimes notes. Dettlaff never indicates he’s gotten them, but Regis has caught glimpses of them in the drawer where he keeps his drawings.</p>
<p>The air is growing colder at night. The warm, sweet smell of decaying leaves is slowly giving way to that of snow, of sharp rains and wind bringing in salt (there is an ocean nearby, and one day Regis will walk far enough to be able to see it). He is glad that Dettlaff has moved up off the floor, because soon the bed will be too cold to be comfortable even under covers and the stove won’t keep the chill out of the room at all, and Dettlaff is exceptionally warm for a vampire. The blankets under the bed have been relocated to the top of it, and Regis is now so used to curling up against his savior’s side that he can’t imagine being able to get to sleep any other way. </p>
<p>Stiffly, Regis closes his book and rises from the forest floor, and begins his walk back towards the hut. He will need to ask Dettlaff for a coat, he realizes. Something long and warm. Dettlaff will not deny him, and will bring him one within a week – he wonders often where he procures these things, but has decided not to ask. As he walks he listens to the woods, and flexes his muscles, and stretches. His skin is thicker, now – less aged and thin, although far older still than he remembers it ever being. The air has started to feel refreshing instead of constantly uncomfortable, and he is less tired. Even exertion fills him with a sense of invigoration simply because it is progress and every day he is closer to returning to his former self. The goal feels attainable, now. </p>
<p>Dettlaff is at the table, dressed and smelling of himself and the iron tang of blood. Venison is roasting above the fire – he has rubbed it with herbs, and Regis smiles fondly and a little self-satisfied. Old dog, new tricks, as they say. On the table there are drawings, and Dettlaff is refining one. It is of him. Far more flattering, he’s sure, than he actually appears. He can feel the sharp edge of his cheeks still, and the deep lines by his eyes. His hair is still white, his knuckles are still lined with age. But perhaps Dettlaff is only drawing what could be, the potential thing, as he does with everything else. While not clever he is something of a hopeless romantic. Consequences of loving unconditionally and deeply anybody who will accept him with kindness. </p>
<p>“Smells excellent,” Regis says. He sets his book and pen on top of the set of drawers. Dettlaff says nothing, so he continues. “I walked further than I have before, today. Magnificent, really – and amazing how quickly it’s happened at that. I feel like just last week a mere two meters past the tree line would have had me flat on my back. Perhaps I’ll be able to get to town soon. Of course it will likely be another year, but still sooner than I expected."</p>
<p>“You’ll be ready sooner than that,” Dettlaff says. His voice is tight. </p>
<p>Regis raises an eyebrow and looks at him. Dettlaff is still drawing. “Is this an unwanted result?”</p>
<p>Dettlaff says nothing. It is not the kind of silence that comes between words; he does not intend to answer. Regis bites his tongue, and knows that in the end he will win out. This is not the first time Dettlaff has decided to brood rather than talk. He is exceptionally bad at dealing with negative emotions.</p>
<p>He tucks his drawings away before they eat, and doesn’t speak for the rest of the evening besides quiet acknowledgement and brief statements in response to whatever Regis has said. Regis doesn’t even really know what he’s talking about – he rambles on and on about anything he can think of, as he usually does. Of course usually, Dettlaff is engaged, curious even if the concepts are confusing to him. Tonight Regis is just buying time, needling at the wall Dettlaff is trying to erect. Dettlaff is as proficient at trying to wall himself off as he is at drawing, but Regis is far better at dismantling than he is at anything else which is saying a lot. </p>
<p>In these situations, there is usually a turning point. Regis has talked and talked about nothing, and then there is a period of silence and Dettlaff will grow anxious during it, and Regis will ask him again what’s wrong, and Dettlaff will tell him. Tonight it comes as Regis is in bed, waiting for Dettlaff to sit behind him. Dettlaff, however, only stands at the foot of the bed and hovers awkwardly. </p>
<p>“Honestly,” Regis sighs. “If you insist on acting like a brooding child, you must tell me what the source of your consternation is.”</p>
<p>Dettlaff’s brow furrows. </p>
<p>“<em>Tell me.</em>” </p>
<p>Dettlaff speaks suddenly, like simply saying it is violent and painful and ripped from his chest. “You’re getting stronger every day and you miss humans. You want to go back to them.”</p>
<p>Realization washes over Regis, suddenly. The shifting thing between them, the caution, the fucking walls. He feels his face slacken and his chest grows soft and warm. “You think I’m going to leave you.” </p>
<p>“You will,” Dettlaff says, certain like he’s telling Regis the night is dark. “You miss your old life. I can feel it – you’ll go to find your pack again, your hansa. And I want you to. I want you to be happy. But it will hurt when you go, and it makes me sad to think of.” </p>
<p>“Oh, my dear Dettlaff.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you.”</p>
<p>Regis throws his legs out of bed and stands, and walks slowly to Dettlaff who watches him carefully. His face is drawn tight. </p>
<p>“How long have you been afraid?” Regis asks softly. </p>
<p>“Since you began to read.”</p>
<p>“<em>Dettlaff</em>,” Regis says, and reaches to take the other’s hands in his. Tender, brushing the sensitive skin of their palms together. Dettlaff shudders. “My dear, foolish Dettlaff. I think, if ever the thought crossed my mind that I might leave you, I am well past the point of being able to act on it. Nor do I think the thought <em>has</em> ever crossed my mind. In fact, I’ve been worrying that you might ask me to leave once I’m well enough to do so.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t,” Dettlaff interjects quickly. </p>
<p>“Then how could you think I would ever want to leave you?”</p>
<p>Dettlaff looks down at their hands, and then past them to the floor. Struggling, Regis thinks, to ask for what he wants. His face is twisting and his brow is furrowing, and Regis has to stop himself from reaching out to tuck a lock of hair back behind his ear. It’s so much darker, now - when he’d first woken it had been nearly grey as Dettlaff let himself be drained deeply and consistently in order to bring him back from the great Undeath, and now the grey lingers only at his temples. </p>
<p>“Tell me that you’ll stay?” is the question he settles on, finally, and he looks up. Clear blue eyes pleading, hopeful and raw and tragically beautiful. Regis feels like his chest is about to split open and for a moment is prepared to tear apart who or whatever has created this terrible wound in Dettlaff.</p>
<p>“Of course I’ll stay,” Regis says, in their own language. Simple and plain, direct, with words for everything. Slowly, Dettlaff presses his forehead to Regis’ and closes his eyes. He sags with heavy relief and Regis grabs his sides and pulls their bodies flush. </p>
<p>“I’ll never leave,” he says again, firm and quiet. “I couldn’t survive it. And if you ever run, I will follow you until the sun burns out.”</p>
<p>And then, without warning, Regis feels everything. </p>
<p>It comes in a violent rush – waves against the shore, blown by a violent gale. He gasps for air and digs his nails into Dettlaff’s body, staggered by the sensation, and Dettlaff is breathing hard and clinging to him. He has a few moments of clarity to think, <em>this is what I expected</em>, and then his mind goes completely blank. He feels the full force of the bond between them, the emotional whirlwind that is purely Dettlaff, every ounce of desperation and adoration and all at once. </p>
<p>Regis is kissing him before he realizes he is, and Dettlaff is letting him. Dettlaff is clinging, and turning them so he can walk backwards to the bed and pull Regis on top of him as he falls onto the mattress. <br/>It is the first time of many, and Regis can’t truly tell where he ends and Dettlaff begins. It is overwhelming. Dettlaff is tearing at his shirt in his efforts to get his hands under it, press his palms against Regis’ ribs, and he’s kissing him so fiercely it might as well be biting. Regis tries to separate to sit up and Dettlaff growls and hooks his hand behind his neck to pull him back down. Regis bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and finally pulls back, grinning as Dettlaff growls again and stares at him with burning intensity. It’s a desperate kind of feeling - Regis feels it too, both his own and Dettlaff’s, feels it as he presses his painfully hard cock against the other vampire's and moans at the sensation. He rips Dettlaff’s shirt off, scatters buttons across the floor, and then lowers himself over him. He is possessed by the urge to taste every part of him, to feel his body shake as he moans, to bring him joy and pleasure and surprise him with clever intimacy and hear him laugh. He wants every part of this beautiful creature to be his.</p>
<p>In the end Dettlaff begs and pleads, clutches at him until his nails leave marks, and Regis fucks him for what feels like hours in a heady fugue and they share breaths between hungry kisses. Everything is a blur, an overwhelming and all-encompassing heat, and anything beyond the limited surface of the bed feels distant and unimportant. And then Dettlaff guides him to his neck, and Regis sinks his fangs into his flesh without any hesitation and feels Dettlaff completely and utterly fall apart under him. He comes and slicks their bellies, crying out as he locks his legs around Regis’ waist, clutching at his back as he drinks. The sound he makes is almost like a sob and his voice is wrecked. Later, Regis imagines he must have come at the same time. He doesn’t realize it as its own unique moment, but instead feels as if he’s experiencing Dettlaff’s - one intense, fantastic peak, a confusing blur between them.</p>
<p>When the fog clears he’s still drinking lazily from Dettlaff’s neck, draped over his body. Dettlaff has assumed his natural form, and his long talons skitter over Regis’ back, and Regis feels his heartbeat against his lips. Shaking with exertion, trembling, Regis withdraws his teeth and licks over the wound until it closes and doesn’t bother moving after that. Dettlaff’s legs relax around him and their limbs tangle, and every beat of his heart finds a twin in Regis’ own. The bond feels intense and tangible, a comforting pressure around him. A secure place in which he will always have a home. To leave Dettlaff now would be a nearly impossible feat.</p>
<p>“You’ve been keeping this from me,” he mumbles. “You sly thing. What made you?”</p>
<p>Dettlaff doesn’t seem to have an answer he can vocalize, but Regis can feel it now that everything is open and flowing between them: he was afraid. He tucks his head against Regis’ neck and holds his tired, loose body close. Again Regis finds himself bristling with distaste for whoever this person is who has hurt the beautiful creature below him, and has to take a deep breath to center himself and calm the feeling. With this new connection he will need to be careful, as it stands to reason Dettlaff can feel his emotions as well as he can feel Dettlaff’s. So much opportunity for terrible awkward insights, but also for hurt. </p>
<p>“Tell me about the woman in your drawings.” Regis kisses the corner of his jaw and keeps his voice low and calm. Knowledge is usually the answer to all things irrational. It is not hard to reason that the woman is at the heart of the matter, as she is the only other remotely humanoid figure in Dettlaff’s work. Perhaps, Regis thinks, there is more to the situation than he understands. Reason not to despise her.</p>
<p>“Rhenawedd.”</p>
<p>He nods, and knows the other vampire will chew on his wording for some time. There’s the sensation of static, and Regis realizes it’s the bond. The flow being stemmed, Dettlaff trying to moderate it, and it makes him wonder how Dettlaff has gotten so good at controlling it. He has more experience, Regis reasons - he spent a lot of time on his own, aware of its existence before Regis even realized he was still alive. Probably kept it flowing just enough to foster a sense of understanding and safety, and then just left it there. Regis strokes his fingers across the muscles under one prominent collarbone and kisses over his pulse again. It’s okay, he thinks - I won’t be jealous. How could he be? Absolutely nothing could come close to what was currently passing between himself and his companion. Almost immediately, the bond opens again. </p>
<p>Dettlaff sighs deeply. “Rhena was important to me. A human woman. She taught me the importance of their values and customs. We were in love. And then somebody took her from me. I came home and she and all of her things were gone without a trace and I could not find her. There was nothing to track, and nobody had seen a woman in distress. I looked for months and found nothing.”</p>
<p>The pang of loss that Regis feels is beyond intense. It echoes his own, feelings he has suppressed because there is nothing he can currently do to resolve them, his concern for the hansa and in particular the witcher. The feeling of loss is so intense, so similar to his own pain, that for a moment it distracts him from a distaste that has now grown tenfold. Later (and he will be sure to have this moment while he is alone in the woods) he will think about how intense a pain Dettlaff felt because this woman had left him without so much as saying good bye, and allow himself to stew furiously. He is certain without a doubt that that is what happened - Dettlaff simply loves too deeply to even realize it’s a possibility. But for now, he wants Dettlaff to feel none of that. He doesn’t want him to realize she left him, or know how angry he is on his behalf. He only wants him to know that he understands. </p>
<p>So he thinks about the hansa, about his time with his friends and how much he wanted to see Angoulême grow and what he’d give to drink beside the witcher again, and feels Dettlaff’s pain subside. Shared misery is sometimes a medicine. He sighs and presses his lips to Regis’ brow, and lowers his voice to a whisper.</p>
<p>“Tell me again.” </p>
<p>“You’re mine,” Regis says. “And I will never leave. Nor can anybody make me.” </p>
<p>He kisses the freshly healed skin on Dettlaff’s neck, and feels a sharp intake of air, and nothing but uncompromising love. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Regis travels to Mère-Lachaiselongue in the dark, as one does when visiting a cemetery in a land where they are at risk of immediate death. It is not that he has changed his mind - he is still soothed by the idea that soon this endless pain and guilt and persistent sense of being incomplete will be ended. His curiosity is so great a drive, and he has never been able to resist it, so he is traveling safely to satisfy this one last question, to know what the hell the sorceress could even be referring to. So he goes under cover of night, mostly as a drifting mist. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe Yennefer, or that he doubts her considerable skill, but he is nervous and so he approaches cautiously. The wights in the graveyard ignore him, and in the distance he can hear drowners and even more distant a panther - there are no signs of other vampires. He is not certain that he will pass safely even without their interference, because Beauclair and this cemetery hold terrible memories. He half believes that his own guilt will consume him whole before he can even pry open the sealed crypt.</p>
<p>The entrance moves easily for him, and he does his work as quietly as possible. The space inside is heavy in the way that sealed spaces often are, and smells of earth and mold and dust. Some of his belongings - or what time has left of them - are still there. He knows Geralt took some things because he saw books he distinctly remembers writing in in the house at Corvo Bianco not three hours ago. There is also rubble - things that have fallen from the walls and ceiling, old stone and dirt, and his own half-forgotten refuse. <br/>Nothing moves. Nothing calls out to him. He suspects Yennefer might be going mad with grief, and then realizes the idea is ridiculous as soon as it’s formed. No, if Yennefer says there’s something important, there is certainly something important. Regis sits on the corner of the slab he used as a bed, closes his eyes, and breathes deeply. </p>
<p>Something so small it is barely noticeable shifts deep inside his chest, and his eyes jerk to a toppled brazier. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. I worked alone no more</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Taking a sharp turn into the fix-it portion of this story, which is always the point in writing where I begin to doubt that anything is a good idea, haha. I think I probably have one or two chapters left before there's an ending! </p><p>UPDATE: Marking this as done so the next section can go up as its own thing - getting WILDLY out of hand, here. Realized you can read it without the first six chapters and I'm breaking the narrative style anyway. Big Fix-It AU is up next.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Aye, Geralt of Rivia! Now there’s a story,” the man says, and Regis smiles a close-lipped smile around a quiet wave of despair. He’s mourning, still. Despite the fact that Geralt is far from the first mortal friend he’s lost, he will be for a while.</p><p>“I’m afraid I’ve heard it, all the way from Stygga back to Rivia. Quite a sad ending to such a storied life.” </p><p>“Ending?” The merchant hisses as Regis cleans the gaping wound on his thigh. Luckily not yet infected. It is deep, and the edges are clean, and he doesn’t believe the story he’s been given about a pack of wolves - but it doesn’t matter. It’s a body that needs care, and Regis is back in his element. </p><p>“That is usually what a death is, is it not? Spirituality aside.”</p><p>“You’re right there, master barber-surgeon, death is indeed an end - but not one the White Wolf has experienced.”</p><p>“Rumors abound, as rumors are wont to do. I assure you, I’ve heard them all, and from all types.”</p><p>“But any from those who’ve seen him?”</p><p>Regis slows, and looks up. The man laughs again.</p><p>“I met him on the road, with a big chunk of leshy strapped onto a horse. Massive ploughin’ thing. Both the leshy and the witcher, though I know which of the two’s most dangerous!”</p><p>“A scar down his face?”</p><p>“Scar and white hair and everything, introduced himself as Geralt of Rivia. Melitele strike me down if I tell a lie. Go nary fifty miles north and you’ll hear tale after tale from first-hand witnesses - I assure you, he walks amongst the living.” </p><p>Regis’ brain is moving at top speed. He is dimly aware of allowing himself to smile softly and say aloud that he hopes the man is right as he gets back to work and barely hears what else the merchant has to say. He has, of course, heard many conflicting accounts of the witcher. All the stories seem to agree that none of his hansa present at Stygga survived the fight aside from the witcher, although they did succeed in their goal which brings him a considerable amount of comfort. He’d learned Dandelion, thankfully, was alive and Regis had every intention of visiting him as soon as he was able to travel easily on his own. After Stygga, stories were inconsistent. Most of them agreed that Geralt died, skewered by a pitchfork in a pogrom in Rivia attempting to defend his friends. More recently though, there are stories of a white-haired witcher wandering the Continent. Some even about the murder of a king. They seem far-fetched to Regis, and he’s confident for some time that they’re all false. </p><p>This merchant is not telling him a lot of things, but he’s not lying about meeting a witcher with white hair and a scar who introduced himself as Geralt of Rivia. And now Regis is thinking, maybe the stories aren’t so far-fetched.</p><p>After he finishes with the merchant he closes up shop and steps out onto the streets of Dillingen. They are war-scarred and sorrow hovers around every corner, but they are rebuilding. Humans, short-lived though they are, are a resilient group of creatures. And, much to his pleasure, he is recognized in town despite his long absence and the many casualties of war. People ask after him, tell them they were worried that he was caught somewhere on the road, a victim of this seemingly endless war himself. It usually takes him a solid half hour to even get out of town in the evenings because he becomes so engaged in the conversations he has with his neighbors. Some of them, he thinks, even suspect what he is now. They don’t seem to mind and Regis is glad to be home. Tonight, though, he hurries and does not linger on the street. He nods and smiles and tells people brightly that he’s got a delicate set of potions brewing at home and can’t linger. This is a blatant lie, of course. There are no delicate potions - only a guest. He thinks that some of the people he tells suspect that this is the case, as well.</p><p>The walk home is always pleasant even when he can’t intensely feel the bond tugging him onward, and he is always accompanied by a variety of ravens who know him by name now - it still pleases him deeply that he’s able to make the walk. When he got back to Dillingen he found that serious reconstruction was needed for the shop, but that his home was touched only by nature. He had to evict a family of raccoons and push back overgrown vines, clean dirt and dust off of everything and replace his bed, but otherwise it was fine. Barring the books, which were a total loss to mildew. It had been shocking - war had clearly torn through Dillingen, but the soldiers hadn’t found his home tucked away in the woods.</p><p>When he gets there tonight, Dettlaff is already waiting inside. He is organizing the glass bottles around his workbench and rumbles at Regis without looking up.</p><p>“I don’t understand how you can live like this.”</p><p>“You see an anxiety-inducing collection of garbage, and I see a a pleasant, comfortable nest.”</p><p>Dettlaff huffs a laugh, and then sighs contentedly as Regis puts his hands on his waist and presses his mouth to the back of his neck and inhales deeply. The other vampire leans back and gives Regis no choice but to wrap his arms around him and perch his chin on his shoulder. Regis can feel his pulse against his cheek. <br/>
“How was the road,” Regis says. He is quickly losing focus. The proximity of the bond, the way Dettlaff smells, the weight of him in his hands - it is all intoxicating. The bond is a pleasant hum at the core of him.</p><p>“The roads north are in shambles. The humans in black and gold occupy land and the atmosphere is tense.”</p><p>“The humans in black and gold are Nilfgaardians,” Regis smiles and begins to unbuckle Dettlaff’s coat. Dettlaff does not assist, fingers pressing lightly on the wood of the table.</p><p>“They are humans in colors using them as an excuse to murder humans in other colors and occupy land. The distinction is irrelevant.”</p><p>“Well. Not inaccurate, exactly. Although they do have very specific cultures, and so some consideration for their differences is warranted, don’t you think? Our own clans-”</p><p>“Did you truly want to spend the evening listening to the sound of your own voice, or did you want to otherwise occupy your mouth?”</p><p>“My, my, we <em>have</em> grown cheeky.”</p><p>“I am learning from the best.”</p><p>“I’m flattered. And fairly sure I can accomplish both feats.”</p><p>Regis grins widely, and succeeds in pulling Dettlaff’s coat off - his neck is revealed, an elegant long column of soft pale flesh and muscle, and Regis occupies his mouth against it immediately.</p><p>He has been living in Dillingen for two years, and it’s been good. Strange, and perhaps not ideal because Dettlaff will not share his home, but good. They came to the decision mutually and technically both of them did move together, but Dettlaff will not establish a permanent living space close to humans. Instead he has relocated to a cave a day or so away where the rest of his pack can congregate without risking encountering too many people - which is a choice of home that Regis would have expected from the Dettlaff of his youth. Dettlaff is drawn to caves like Regis is drawn to crypts. Although Dettlaff resides in the cave, he has been staying more and more frequently in Regis’ home and his drawing supplies have found a spot there. He stalks around Brugge, circling Dillingen like a distant moon and has even become a familiar face in the town - the barber-surgeon’s handsome foreign friend. </p><p>Dettlaff growls when Regis pushes him up against a wall, knocking papers and books off shelves in the process. He is pulling at Regis’ clothes roughly but without real intent, like he wants them off but can’t figure out how to do it, and Regis laughs at him as he undoes his shirt and pants with clinical precision and starts to strip him. At this rate, Dettlaff will be entirely naked before Regis has so much as a glove off. The bond surges intensely as Dettlaff grabs him by the back of his neck and crashes their mouths together before allowing him to drift downwards.</p><p>“I missed you,” Dettlaff says, exhaling sharply when Regis kisses over his chest.</p><p>“It’s only been three days.”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter. I wish could have you with me at all times. I miss what you were like after you woke, how you relied on me and how it felt when we were on our own far from others.”</p><p>“Oh, my dear, sweet Dettlaff. I do miss you when you’re gone as well,” Regis purrs, and bares his fangs against Dettlaff’s neck. “Rest assured, I am just as heavily reliant on you as I was then, and when the world finally grows to tiresome we will go wherever you want all on our own."</p><p>Regis takes Dettlaff over his workbench, still mostly dressed and pinning one of Dettlaff’s arms behind his back. It is as emotionally raw and heady as the first time, as every time has been; Regis likes the feeling so much he would fuck him all day if it was an option. He has always liked sex, but this is beyond anything he has ever experienced. Stilling entirely after a series of violent thrusts that send a dozen or so glass bottles crashing to the ground and put a gouge in his wall from the edge of the table, he rests his forehead against Dettlaff’s back and puts his hand over his stomach, holds his body flush against his own. Dettlaff has long since forgotten to maintain a human form and is moaning, spouting half-nonsense in their mother tongue, begging Regis for things he can give and things no one can. Regis would try, if Dettlaff were asking seriously. There is nothing Regis won’t do for him.</p><p>By midnight they are in bed, lying face to face, and Regis is finally naked and warm. Dettlaff traces lines on his face with a delicate claw looking tiredly contented. The light from the fire makes his eyes almost silver and glints off a ring he has recently given to him. Regis feels the ring against his cheek as the hand it adorns cups his face and he is kissed <em>so tenderly</em> - the familiar weight of it, a metal from a place neither of them has ever seen, the associations, all an additional layer of comfort. He has felt the chill of it on his cheek before. The vampire who had given it to him had been kissing him then, too. </p><p>The ring is important. It is a symbol of everything he now holds dear, his personal convictions, a point of focus for him when he struggled with those first few years of sobriety. A reminder to remain humble and caring. A bit of home to bring with him everywhere, as out of place as him and all his people. A gift from somebody he had loved very deeply despite the very short amount of time they spent together - short even by human standards, unlike the time he’s now spent with Dettlaff. And now it means even more, because it is a gift he can pass on as it was passed to him. Something to aid Dettlaff in his growth and give him a way to ground himself. </p><p>His moving to Dillingen has been good for Dettlaff. He still clearly doesn’t understand Regis’ inclinations towards humans, doesn’t enjoy hiding himself, but he’s getting much better at talking with them. At jokes, specifically, and he caries forward his understanding of Regis' own tendency to play with words into these interactions. The townsfolk are even starting to warm up to him and are no longer put off by his terseness. Of course, he's still blind to is the fact that humans are not straightforward creatures and that they harbor unspoken biases borne out of nothing logical. As such he is unaware of how strange his regular visits to Regis’ home seem to the townsfolk, and Regis never successfully explains to why it is considered unusual for them to be so close so frequently - he is beginning to doubt that he will be able to teach Dettlaff to be wary of human prejudice and understand the games they play, how they lie, without making him want to avoid them entirely. It’s Regis’ congenial personality and prior experience that allow them leeway with the people here, give them an excuse to accept the very clumsy cover that Dettlaff is his cousin and looking after him after a severe illness which took him away from Dillingen for almost six years.</p><p>It also doesn’t hurt that on several occasions Dettlaff has aggressively persuaded drunken soldiers to abandon their attempts at terrorizing the locals. Intimidation would perhaps be a better word, only Dettlaff never has to lift his voice. He only has to glare. That has probably contributed to his recently acquired popularity, as well. More than anything, that makes Regis happy. Dettlaff’s pack instincts are ridiculously strong, and he’s extending them to the humans in town, which means there’s hope that one day he will become comfortable. And as long as he and Regis are together, Regis can make sure he doesn’t stumble head-first into any issues stemming from his very literal understanding of the world.</p><p>“You are thinking very loudly,” Dettlaff murmurs. </p><p>“Am I? Well, in that case I am certainly at risk of running my mouth at you again. Perhaps you should consider otherwise occupying me. It worked very well the first time.”</p><p>Dettlaff kisses him again smiles against his mouth, and trails a finger under his jaw. In less than a year there will be nothing but desperation and sorrow in this bed, but as he pins Dettlaff to the mattress and rucks his shirt up to kiss the skin over his ribs Regis cannot imagine such a time will ever come.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When he returns to Corvo Bianco Yennefer is sitting in the garden. She has a full glass of wine in her hand, an empty one on the table, and she gestures at the seat beside her as he approaches. Regis’ mind is full of static and he clutches the fist closed tight around his prize to his chest, but he sits where she’s pointing and she pours him a drink. </p><p>“So,” she says, “I take it you had a productive trip.”</p><p>“Very.”</p><p>“I do apologize for not telling you sooner. I thought it might put you in a difficult place with Geralt, and you seemed to be doing very well in Nilfgaard in regards to your exile. No doubt the last few decades have been incredibly difficult.“</p><p>“I understand.”</p><p>“I thought you might. Geralt would have absolutely lost his mind and my understanding is that you'd likely have attempted a recovery immediately.”</p><p>Regis cleared his throat, and used his free hand to take up the glass. It was a very good vintage, but he couldn’t focus on it. “How long did you know?”</p><p>“Since before Geralt sealed the crypt. A very particular energy, as you can imagine, and I had perused your home for what might be salvaged and felt it immediately. Of course, Geralt had no idea or he likely would have obliterated it. Is it not a custom of your people to destroy such… abandoned items?”</p><p>“It is. And I did, although apparently not very well.”</p><p>“You had a lot on your mind.”</p><p>Regis laughs in a way that feels hollow. “Indeed. I was quite preoccupied.”</p><p>"Do you mind if I see it?”</p><p>Regis realizes he’s still clutching his fist to his chest and starts slightly before extending his hand to her and opening his hand. The finger, half-charred but whole, flinches in his palm, and Yennefer peers.</p><p>“<em>Fascinating</em>.”</p><p>Something about her gaze, the comment, unnerves him and he closes his fist and holds it to his chest again. He supposes it would be fascinating to a human, sorceress or not. It had been to Geralt once too, although the context had been different. With Geralt, everything had seemed borne out of interest in him as a living being and not as a specimen of his species. Now he feels examined. Other. It was not intentional, but it is there. Suddenly realizing he can no longer count on the outcome of this whole damnable situation being his capture and subsequent obliteration has caused the heavy feeling to return to his shoulders and Yennefer’s detached interest amplifies what he’s feeling now, pulling him from the apathy of shock he’d felt since the crypt. Geralt’s death hits him suddenly and hard, and knocks the breath out of him for a moment. His eyes burn, and he looks away quickly. </p><p>He misses acceptance as much as he misses the sensation of unconditional love and the time when the bond did not feel like a gaping hole in his chest. He misses the presence of a man who saw him as truly human - and if he’s to believe Dandelion, perhaps even the ideal of what it means to be human. The only time he didn’t doubt his choices - to abandon his kind’s customs, to try and fit in with the humans, to kill the one he loved, to walk about like a square peg desperately trying to cram itself into a round hole - was when Geralt was beside him. That clarity was priceless. Without it now he feels as if he’s spinning wildly, even with the humanist’s ring on his finger. Even now that he knows Dettlaff isn’t truly dead.</p><p>That actually makes it worse, he realizes. To bring Dettlaff back is to face his choices head-on, to face the hurt and betrayal from the person he was never meant to abandon. It’s the the possibility for an endless parade of terrible mistakes. More than he’s already made, in any case.</p><p>“What was he like? The owner of your finger. Aside from emotional, I believe I’ve heard quite enough about that temper tantrum.” </p><p>Regis barks a quick laugh. “I imagine you have. Although it was quite an important character note, Dettlaff was… very, very bad at handling negative emotion. Truly any intense emotion at all. Thus it is incredibly unfortunate that the only way in which he loved was immediately and unconditionally to the point of near-obsession - and he was very sincere and direct about it, which meant he was always at great risk of not only having his heart broken but also being used, as he did not understand how humans lie. But beyond that, I suppose you could describe him as brusque. Thrived on a good hunt. Quite a proficient artist. And for all of his struggle to understand humans I believed for a time that he could learn, because the core of him was gentle and sensible - and maybe he could have learned despite everything, and the truth of the matter is that I lost my faith in him. He was not entirely unlike our dear witcher, come to think of it. I sometimes think they would have been good friends in another life.” </p><p>“Perhaps. No doubt he was also pleasant on the eyes. You’ve always had impeccable taste, as far as I am aware.”</p><p>“He was."</p><p>“A pity things turned out the way they did, and all over some spoiled little monster. I must admit, I have wondered what it was like to make the choice you did. For all our conflict I can’t imagine making the same one had I been in a place to kill Geralt. I appreciate the choice, obviously, I simply struggle to wrap my head around it. I know Geralt was very particularly adept at winning the favor of strays, but with a bond such as the one between yourself and your paramour… Well. I struggle to fathom. And if I struggle to fathom, how do you imagine going about explaining it to your unfortunately emotional man?”</p><p>“I’m sure he’ll struggle to fathom as well, if I am successful in my endeavor.” Regis sighs and closes his eyes before drinking. He is too tired. He wants to sleep.</p><p>“I have made many excuses for my actions over the last century. That it was a choice to protect humankind, that it was for Geralt’s safety and my own. In all honesty I do not remember my line of thought, nor am I sure I had one at the time. If I did it likely all revolved around knowing Dettlaff was out of control and dangerous and that I did not know how to help him. Or it may have been only an instinct, and then I proceeded to do I did what I felt was right. I question that day constantly and I doubt that I will ever find absolution, and do not expect it from him. I only want him to have another chance, even if I cannot witness it.”</p><p>“And so how do you imagine this will go?” </p><p>“Awkwardly, I should think, and with a fair amount of heartbreak. Maudlin, isn’t it.”</p><p>“No different from the past century, then. You should be well prepared.” Yennefer sips from her glass, and watches Regis carefully. Several moments of silence pass before it becomes clear that he has no intention of responding and she raises a single brow. “Well? I suppose you’ve at least some inkling of a plan for the next step, at least.”</p><p>“I know the next step very well. There are only two options, and both start with a visit to an old friend in Vizima to plead with her to bring my case back to the others, so I may either be granted a reprieve for long enough to attend Dettlaff, or entrust the remains to another before accepting my punishment. If I am granted time, I will find a secluded place and go about my business until it’s complete. Not much of a plan is required beyond location, and even that is thinking too far ahead.”</p><p>Yennefer raises her other brow in surprise. "You think they’ll still exact punishment?”</p><p>“Why would I not?”</p><p>“It seems to me that you didn’t truly kill him, so by your own very simple codex you haven’t done anything wrong. And in any case, you’ll be reviving him. It is technically no longer murder. Assault at worst.”</p><p>“Perhaps you should come talk for me. I doubt I have the energy for self-preservation at this point,” Regis chuckles and brings the wine to his lips again, pausing before he drinks to add, “I think the two of you would actually get along very well, if you’ve not already had the pleasure of meeting the Queen of the Night.”</p><p>“Is that a request, vampire?”</p><p>“I should think it is. If you’re not terribly busy.”</p><p>“Don't be difficult - you know exactly the kind of night I'll have as soon as I'm alone and that a distraction would be welcome. I would suggest we simply follow the young empress back home, but I assume you’re anxious to hear an answer. And if you aren’t, frankly I am - a portal seems a better option.” </p><p>“I would like that very much.”</p><p>“After the wine, of course.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Regis drains his glass and looks out towards the valley. The worry and fear previously bubbling in his chest have faded, and he is too tired to feel much of anything at all. Dread still lurks in the distance but does not succeed in strangling out the hope that’s beginning to take root as well. It is a small thing, and he hates that it’s there. The best that will happen is that Dettlaff will live again. He cannot hope for more; not for forgiveness from his people and especially not from Dettlaff. He cannot hope to feel Dettlaff’s hands on his cheeks and the press of his lips on his forehead and to finally be able to get a restful night’s sleep where he belongs - pressed between the wall and curled around the one who saved him. </p><p>He cannot hope for these things, but he finds himself doing it anyway. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>